


Next Year in Jerusalem

by ImpishTubist



Series: Hiatus Sequence [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade and John mark the third anniversary of Sherlock's disappearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Year in Jerusalem

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Beta: Canon_Is_Relative

The night air was cool; sharp with the scent of rain. Lestrade dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket and hunched his shoulders against the chill. The wind was stronger here, on the rooftop, but it was the most ideal location for what was about to happen.  
                 
Besides, Sherlock had always had a strange fondness for rooftops. It seemed only fitting.  
                 
Lestrade’s hand found the rectangular box in his pocket and he ran his thumb along the edge, considering - but no, John would be here any moment. He could wait for a cigarette.  
                 
It surprised him to think that he, like Sherlock, feared disappointing the doctor.  
                 
And then, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising.  
                 
He turned his face toward the sky, trying to make out the faint pinpricks of light that most days were washed out by the vibrant city lights. He could make out a few here and there - the brightest ones only, but he knew the sky well enough to fill in the rest of the gaps. He spotted Saturn, in the southern sky, and the constellation Leo. He wondered -

“You and the stars,” a voice said behind him, interrupting his thoughts, and he turned to see John standing there, a small smile playing about his lips. “Seems you can’t have one without the other.”  
                 
“Hello, John.” They clasped hands, briefly. “How’ve you been?”  
                 
“Well enough.” John held up a bottle and pulled two glasses out of the depths of his jacket. How such a small and thin jacket could contain so much, Lestrade would never know. He allowed a brief smile as John set the glasses on the ledge and poured them both a drink.  
                 
“May fourth,” John said, picking up his glass and clinking it against Lestrade’s. The DI repeated the date, and they drank.  
                 
May fourth. The day Sherlock had disappeared, three years ago; the day that whatever strange sort of normality the three of them had built had unraveled around them. It was perhaps strange to keep such a painful date alive and present in their memories, but it was a shared pain, and thus a little easier to bear. And a simple invocation of the day - a mere utterance of the words _May fourth_ \- served as a reminder when one of them was being cavalier; when one of them was losing himself in drink; when one of them was working himself into an early grave.  
                 
 _Remember Sherlock_. _He wouldn’t have wanted this._  
                 
It was a most dreadful day, and yet it kept them going.  
                 
It wasn’t just a reminder of what they lost - it was hope of what they might gain back.  
                 
They never _had_ found the body.

  
                 
“Tell me about him,” John said suddenly. Lestrade looked at him, startled.  
                 
“Me?” He let out a huff of laughter. “What could I possibly say? You know him better.”  
                 
They did this sometimes - forgetting to use the past tense. Neither of them ever corrected the other when it happened.  
                 
“No. I know him differently,” John said. “But you two had five years before I came along.”  
                 
“There isn’t much to say, really.”  
                 
“But it’s all I have.” John wrapped his arms tightly around himself, even though the night was warm. “Did you know - he’s been gone now longer than we knew each other? And it gets a little harder, every day. A little harder to remember his laugh; a little harder to remember his smell; a little harder to remember _him_. It wasn’t nearly long enough.”  
                 
“It’s never long enough,” Lestrade said softly. He drank deeply from the glass, considering his next words, while John simply held his and turned his gaze to the nearby buildings.  
                 
“He ever tell you about that time he tracked down a drug lord alone?” the DI said finally. John turned to look at him. “We found him hanging from a building by his fingertips and he _still_ managed to subdue the guy by the time we got up the stairs. Oh, he was furious that the man almost got the better of him. So was I, for that matter. Put him in a cell for a couple of days until I composed myself.”  
                 
“That’s hardly legal,” John noted around a smile. Lestrade shrugged.  
                 
“Deserved it, git that he was,” he muttered fondly.  
                 
“You’re smoking again,” John said suddenly. Lestrade glanced at him, startled.  
                 
“Christ, that’s spooky.”  
                 
“Sorry. Guess I picked up a few things, living with him. How long, though?”  
                 
“Long enough.” Lestrade fished in his pockets for a lighter and cigarette, because it _had_ been on his mind and now that John knew - well, no use hiding it anymore. “I don’t suppose -”  
                 
“No, thank you.”  
                 
“Right.”

They stood in silence for some moments, Lestrade smoking and John thinking.

“How did you two meet?” John asked eventually.  
                 
“He never said?”  
                 
“No,” John replied with a sad smile. “He’s not fond of people forcing him to take them into his confidence.”  
                 
“He’s not, is he?” Lestrade mused to himself. _This should have come from you, Sherlock_. “I think - I think that’s something to save for another time, John. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” John said quickly, looking away. “Of course.”  
                 
 _Damn you, Sherlock_.  
                 
John leaned his forearms on the railing and bowed his head, pressing his thumbs against either side of his nose and lacing his fingers together. He looked as though he was praying; Lestrade knew he was listening.

“He used to have an obnoxious sweet tooth,” Lestrade said, casting about for something John might not know. “He went through sweets as though they were water. Sweets and cigarettes - his two vices, and he kicked them both.”

John smiled at the image, head still bowed, and asked, “What else?”

“He used to break into my flat all the time, back before Baker Street.”

 _Before Baker Street_. That was how they defined their lives now. Before and After, with Baker Street forming the line of demarcation down the middle.

“I changed the locks; he got in anyhow,” Lestrade continued, smiling gently. He looked on those years fondly now, though at the time to say he’d been less than pleased would have been a severe understatement.  “He used to conduct experiments there, did you know? Occasionally I still stumble across some of his old notes, written on scraps of paper and tucked in mugs and cabinets and between books. Found a desiccated mouse the other day. It’s as though -”

He stopped, smile vanishing, and dropped his gaze to his glass.

“ - like he’s still around,” John finished for him, and Lestrade nodded.

John straightened, rolling his bad shoulder for a moment, and then said, “What was it you told Sherlock that one night? That last time Moriarty tried to kill him?”

Lestrade remembered the night well; Sherlock’s pain etched itself onto his memory so vividly it was as though he had experienced the agony himself.

“I told him a lot of things that night.”

“That planet - you said it had a...a Land of the Perpetual Sunrise.” John snorted. “I dunno why I remembered it. It just sounded - so hopeful.”

He ducked his head. “I feel like I’m still waiting for that sun to rise. Been waiting for three years, now.”

“Will you ever stop waiting?” Lestrade asked him.

“Will you?” John retorted. He picked up his glass once more. “Next year will be better. Next year will be different.”

It was their mantra, the thing that kept them going whilst they were living this existence; the one thing that kept them going while they were living in the valley of the shadow.

“May fourth,” John said, raising his glass. Lestrade lifted his own, and they touched them together.

“May fourth,” he intoned.

They drank.

  
                 
There was an extra phone in Lestrade’s office. Most days of the year it was silent - in fact, most days of the year it did nothing but sit there in the corner and mock him, but it was the most important piece of equipment he owned. John never commented on its sudden appearance, if he’d even noticed at all, but Lestrade had a ready script for what he would tell the doctor should it ever come up. He had plans and contingencies and scripts, all locked away in his desk, ready for every eventuality and every question that might spring from someone’s lips. So far, they had proved unnecessary.

It would ring tonight, just like it had two times before on this day.

 _May fourth._  
   
The first time had been a surprise; he’d come into his office and found the phone sitting in the corner, with a note attached to it that had been scrawled in Mycroft Holmes’ spidery handwriting. A time, and an order.  
   
 _9:04 pm, tonight. Do make sure you’re here to answer it._  
   
He should have known. He _should have known_ that death was too mundane for Sherlock Holmes.  
   
And thus, that first May fourth after Sherlock's disappearance had been joyous; the second had been heartbreaking, as Sherlock’s mission stretched on and with no end in sight.  
   
And this night…this night, he simply felt numb.

Lestrade shrugged out of his jacket and threw his cigarettes into the back of his desk drawer. The door to his office had already been locked and secured, and John had left half an hour before. Now there was little left to do but wait.

The phone came to life, loud and shrill. Heart in his throat and pounding wildly, Lestrade picked it up.  
                 
“Sherlock,” he said quietly, and pulled out his watch. Three minutes. They would only have that.

“Lestrade.” The voice had changed little over the years; become rougher, perhaps, but that was to be expected.

“How’s the mission?”  
                 
“You know I can’t say.”  
                 
“Mycroft looking out for you?”  
                 
There was a brief sigh. “As well as he can. It was necessary to give his surveillance team the slip a few nights ago. He’s doing what he can.”  
                 
“Right. Well. If you need anything -”  
                 
“There’s nothing you can do.”

“You know that’s a very hard pill to swallow, Sherlock.” Lestrade turned around to look out his windows, phone still pressed tightly to his ear. “I don’t know where you are, but here it’s been - well, London. Rainy and blustery most days. Had a body on a double-decker a few days ago. You’d’ve enjoyed it.”  
                 
“It was the boyfriend.”  
                 
“Reading my paperwork, now, too?” Lestrade said with a brief smile.  
                 
“I keep tabs, when I can.”  
                 
He imagined Sherlock in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Europe, murmuring into the phone, voice reflexively kept soft to prevent eavesdropping, though they both knew that that would do little to deter Moriarty. Sherlock was permitted these calls once in a great long while, when there was a lull in whatever it was he was doing and Mycroft was able to set up a secure line. Lestrade wondered, often, why Sherlock chose to call him.  
                 
“You were watching tonight, I gather.”  
                 
The voice on the other end sounded amused. “Toasting my death? How very John.” There was a pause. “Is he well?”  
                 
“As well as he can be. He’s hurting, Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice lowered. “It should be him.”  
                 
“You’re a fool sometimes, Greg, do you know that?”  
                 
“I have it on pretty good authority.” Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face. “Well, I’m sure you have a good reason for calling me and not John. I expect you home someday, alive and well, to explain it to me. Have you been all right?”  
                 
“Yes.”  
                 
“Sherlock.” There was silence on the other line, and it angered him. _Don’t go quiet on me now; we only have so long_. “Were you hurt again?”  
                 
“A sprained wrist. Inconsequential.”  
                 
“Right. How -” and his throat was suddenly dry, but he forced the words out around it, “how long, do you think -?”  
                 
“Soon.” Sherlock paused. “It will be over...soon.”

Lestrade didn’t dare ask whether that meant it would be over for Moriarty - or over for the both of them. He glanced at his watch, and his heart sank like lead. “There are thirty seconds left.”

“Yes, I see.”

“What do you need, Sherlock? Tell me. I’ll do what I can -”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on the twins tonight,” Sherlock interrupted. They had only moments. “I’d appreciate if you could pass along the message to John.”

Lestrade nodded, understanding. “I’ll tell him. Stay safe, Sherlock.”

“And you.”

And when it was over, Lestrade tugged his phone from his pocket and pecked out a message to John.

 _Keep an eye on the constellation Gemini tonight for me_.

“For Sherlock,” he muttered, and pressed _send_.

**Author's Note:**

> The constellation Gemini is associated with the twins Castor and Pollux in Greek mythology.
> 
> In Judaism, the words "next year in Jerusalem" are recited at the conclusion of the Yom Kippur service and the Passover Seder.  
> 


End file.
